Our party fell into silence again, and, having nothing else to interest me at the moment, I resumed my study, which this episode had interrupted, of Buffalo Bill, our guide. Athletic and shrewd, he rode ahead of us with sinews of iron and eye ever on the alert, clad in a suit of buckskin. His mount was a tough roan pony which he had named Brigham and of which he seemed very fond. Nevertheless, this fondness did not prevent hard riding, and when I last saw Brigham, several months afterward, he was a very sorry-looking animal, insomuch that I concluded not to have his photograph taken as that of a model steed for Buffalo Land, as I once contemplated doing. It was extremely fortunate for us that we had secured Cody as guide. The whole western country bordering on the plains, as we afterward learned, from sorry experience, is infested with numberless charlatans, blazing with all sorts of hunting and fighting titles, and ready at the rustle of greenbacks to act as guides through a land they know nothing about. These reprobates delight in telling thrilling tales of their escapes from Indians, and are constantly chilling the blood of their shivering party by pointing out spots where imaginary murders took place. Without compasses they would be as hopelessly lost as needleless mariners. I have my doubts if one-third of these terribly named bullies could tell, on a pinch, where the north star is. Unless they chanced to strike one of the Pacific lines which stretch across the plains, a party, under their guidance, wishing to go west would be equally liable to get among the Northern Siouxs or the Ku-Klux of Arkansas. A thousand miles east Young America's cherished ideal of the frontier scout and guide is an eagle-eyed giant, with a horse which obeys his whistle, and breaks the neck of any Indian trying to steal him. In addition to its wonderful master, the back of this model steed is usually occupied by a rescued maiden. At risk of infringing on the copyrights of thirty-six thousand of the latest Indian stories, we have obtained from an artist on the spot an illustration of the last heroine brought in and her rescuer, the rare old plainsman.[1] [1] See illustration on page 137. Cody had all the frontiersman's fondness for practical jokes, and delighted in designating Mr. Colon as "Mr. Boston," as if accidentally confounding the residence with the name. In one instance, with a cry of "Come, Mr. Boston, here's a specimen!" he enticed the philanthropist into the eager pursuit of a beautiful little animal through some rank bottom grass, and brought the good man back in such a condition that we unanimously insisted on his traveling to leeward for the rest of the day.